Can't Buy Me Love
by Alexis Machine
Summary: Faith, Wesley, Warmgoodness. Delicious for all us sick little freaks.


Joss Whedon owns your life. Accept it and let it pour over you like sweet, sweet balm.   
  
This is sort of me and my ex, the way we acted together, and all. Talked to her, a couple of nights ago. Was unpleasant, so wrote doofy fanfiction instead.  
  
****  
  
The credits were rolling, but the lights hadn't come up yet, breaking the spell that transports the viewer into another dimension where reality is defined by camera angles, and Fate predetermined by tack bound words on drafted pages. Faith slid her arm around Wesley's, burrowed deeper into his shoulder, "That was pretty okay, Princess."  
  
He lolled his head against hers, finding that the masses of dark brown hair smelled quite nice, as usual, "I actually think I'm supposed to call you that."  
  
"Do it and fucking die, babes."  
  
"Well, perhaps 'Princess' wouldn't be the proper appellation."  
  
"Oh? And what would?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know," he stroked her other arm--muscular but not in a bad way-- lightly, grazing over it just lightly with calloused fingertips, "Satanette? Lucifera? Xena? Beast Woman? Red Sonja?"  
  
"Okay, okay,"  
  
But there was no way he'd stop there, "My Favourite Monster, Demona,"  
  
"I'm warning you, Wes," his arm was comfy, but... decisions, decisions!  
  
"Fifi the Wonder Weasel?" Teasing, sometimes, took a step too fucking far, kind of like that movie, except that was a bridge. She'd watched that one with Wesley too. No matter what they'd watched--or done--together, Faith sunk her teeth into Wesley's bicep. He squawked, "Bloody hell, woman! What's that about!"  
  
They settled down again, and she was purring like a kitten, "Fifi the Wonder Weasel my ass... couldn't have hurt too much, big guy. Didn't notice you pull away."  
  
"Losing half the flesh off my humerus wouldn't have been very... humourous," he laughed a little at this god-awful pun, but it was thankfully in an ironic kind of way, sort of. Faith cringed, but a good man was hard to find... but no quoting Mae West (she'd seen THOSE movies on her own, thank you very much) here, guys.  
  
"Aw, poor baby, want me kiss it make it better?" she pressed her lips against his upper arm, which was nice and muscley, these days. "How's that?"  
  
He feigned deep dignity and bravery, "I may live."  
  
"Unless you make one of those jokes, again."  
  
"Come, now, I'm not that bad, am I?"  
  
"You're worse, dude," the credits had almost finished, "That was a good movie, though. I'm glad you dragged me to see it."  
  
"You always are, you know."  
  
"I do."  
  
"Then why do you resist so strenuously each time? You're like a child who doesn't want a shot," the simile pleased him, so he rested against Faith a while and basked in it.  
  
Her voice was muffled and comfortable, nestled deep up under him, "Cause fighting with you's fun. You know that sort of stuff, ah, turns me on, dude, right?"  
  
He thought about scratches all over his neck, flanks and back, some still fresh and burning, other fading, none of these regretted in the least, "I have some idea, yes."  
  
"Anyways, that was some cool shit. Those big elephanty guys were fucking A."  
  
His voice held a glimmer of disappointment, "Well, they did some things right, quite few things, to be honest with you, but some others were NOT interpreted as I'd have interpreted them."  
  
"Yah, a good thing too, Wes, or we'd still be making sweet, sweet Hobbit love in the tower."  
  
"Sam and Frodo's relationship was deep... meaningful... straight!" He sounded almost offended.  
  
Faith sighed against him, "Damn, Princess, don't get your panties in a bunch. Two alright looking guys going at it... girl can hope, can't she?"  
  
"Tolkein was friends with my grandfather," Wesley began, "and therefore it is a matter of almost family, of respect for a man's--"  
  
Faith had no intention of letting him gain steam as she'd heard this at least twelve hundred times, tonight, "Body of work which he spent most of his life writing to little thanks during his lifetimes." She laughed, "Too bad he's dead. He'd be making a fucking killing of royalties."  
  
"Well, he'd also be 110 years old."  
  
"Kind of wrinkly, then?"  
  
"Experience with old folks would suggest that, yes."  
  
"Hey, Angel is an old folk and he looks like pretty non-wrinkly goodness, to me." What fun!  
  
He clenched, a little, as Faith knew he would, "I suppose that is one advantage of being the accursed Walking Dead."  
  
"More like the accursed and amazingly gay, man... you know he's not my type." Later, post really good sex, they curled up together, Faith drifting toward sleep on a lazy stream of thoughts and Wesley already a citizen of dreamland. She kept snuggled close to him, adoring warmth and simple, skin-to-skin contact. Faith hated being alone and, for the moment, she wasn't. Can't buy happiness, yeah, but maybe you can hit someone on the head and run with just a little bit of it? 


End file.
